


The Way by Wash

by fricktony



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-10-26 09:42:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10784295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fricktony/pseuds/fricktony
Summary: Inspired by papanorth's time travel AU.Tucker's got a dead boyfriend, a kid that isn't born yet, and stab wound in his side.The Director has a warm bed, Tucker's sword, and a lie about how the hell some stranger knew Agent Washington's name.Home is a long way away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This as been a really, really long time in the making. I started writing in 2015, so if the details don't quite line up post season 13.. forgive me.

Tucker is dead.

Otherwise, how could he stare at the face of a man he knows to also be dead?

’Wash?’

‘Who the hell is this?’

It has to be heaven. This face, it’s the man he knows, but it’s not the right… version. It’s a few system updates, viruses and bug crashes ago. That’s what heaven is, right? It puts people back to their factory settings, before their bodies started to malfunction and break. 

Apparently Agent Washington’s factory settings were set before he met Tucker.

Wash stands in a group of people Tucker doesn’t recognise. Towards the back, Tucker sees Carolina, but in death it looks like she too chose to remove the scars and frown lines that defined her years of war in life.

Tucker thinks he’s really, really upset she didn’t make it either, before things go dark and he passes out from the stab wound in his left side.

****

Tucker doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but when he wakes up they’ve stripped him of his armour and laid him in what he assumes is a hospital bed. The sheets are white and clean, there are needles itching at his skin and he certainly feels shitty enough to be in hospital. 

On the other hand, he’s pretty sure most hospital rooms have nurses instead of armed guards, and flowers instead of guns in people’s hands.

When, upon seeing his open eyes, Washington and another, older man approach his bed, Tucker’s situation comes sweeping back to him like whiplash.

He wonders why people need guns in heaven. Of course eternal utopia was bound to get boring, but is there really no escape from war, not even here?  
They stand at Tucker’s bedside. The older man holds himself straight with his shoulders pulled back, and the way he looks through the glasses sat on the end of his nose reminds Tucker of Dumbledore a bit, except Dumbledore didn’t glare at everything like they were a failed test subject.

Washington’s posture is similar, but Tucker doesn’t miss how he scrabbles at the loose skin around his fingers and bites so hard his lips are bleeding a little bit.

Wash’s eyes dart around the room. The can’t seem to settle, but when they meet Tuckers it catches him off gaurd.

Washington is so _pretty._ Tucker’s always said it, Wash has always hated it (even though it’s true, duh, you can be smoking hot _and_ really, really pretty), but he’s never looked like this. The freckles are still the same, the signs of age never really bothered Tucker, but it’s something in the way he looks at him; eyebrows slightly furrowed, an awkward smile that doesn’t meet the eyes, his body shifts because his feet are shuffling, always fidgeting. Wash looks… innocent.

That’s new.

He hates to look away from Wash’s pretty face, but he has to when Dumbledore asks him a question.

‘You are safe. Do you know your name?’

‘I’m Lavernius Tucker.’

‘Do you know your age?’

’29?’ Hey, if this is the afterlife he should at least get to pick his age.

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘No fucking clue.’

‘Do you know how you got here?’ In that moment, Tucker notices a defunct teleportation grenade like the one that held Doc for so long on his bedside table. That means that a), he’s got an idea of how he got here, and b), this probably isn’t heaven. Now would probably be a good time to start lying (like, properly. Not about dumb stuff like his age).

He tells Dumbledore he hasn’t a fucking clue on how he got here either, so Dumbledore asks where he came from.

‘Chorus,’ he says like he means it. ‘I’m a captain of the federal army, sir.’

Tucker knows that most of the universe forgot about the existence of planet Chorus, but if Dumbledore is surprised to hear the little planet mentioned, it doesn’t show. Wash doesn’t have a reaction either, but then Tucker knows there are lots of planets Wash doesn’t know the name of, even if he does like to stargaze when he can’t sleep at night.

Besides, young Wash and Carolina on a ship Tucker doesn’t recognise, with a guy who looks like he has a serious grudge against the universe?

Tucker’s beginning to realise where he is.

‘Captain Tucker,’ The older man starts, and for all the respect that title usually holds it sounds like Dumbledore is calling him some slur, by the way it sneers out of his mouth. ‘you must be very confused. I believe we may have accidentally activated a teleportation device-‘ He waves a hand at the defunct grenade on the table next Tucker’s bed. ‘-your people held the other end of. Correct me if I am wrong, Captain, but you come from the year 2558?’

Tucker nods, and wonders if his ruse has already been busted. Not that Dumbledore (though Tucker now suspects he knows the man’s real name, fuck this fucking guy) can probably see through time, but if he can pull him back, well, god knows what spies he could have sent forward.

‘This ship is the Mother of Invention, property of the UNSC. As our name implies, we work on new and alien technology, and unfortunately while we could pull you back to us, we are yet to discover a way to send you forward and to your home planet.’

‘Wait, pull me back?’ He has to act shocked. He hasn’t forgotten blurting out Wash’s name, but boy does he hope the director has.

‘Yes. I’m sorry to tell you, but this is the year 2545.’ 

2545\. 

Ten years before he first meets Wash.

The Director explains. He finally tells Tucker his name, confirming all suspicions, and tells Tucker he has two options; they can drop him at the next planet with fresh identity papers explaining his situation, and leave Tucker to his own devices; or (with a side glance at Washington that leaves Tucker feeling cold) he can stay on the MOI while they try and fix the grenades, and work for the Director. Not as an agent, unless he really proves himself as an asset, but more of a handy man.

Tucker agrees to the latter. If they find a way to send him back, he gets to see his friends, but if he stays here, Wash isn’t… that’s a thought he doesn’t need to think right now. There’s nothing else in the universe for him, except for maybe Junior, and he’s not even born yet (and future Tucker would totally kick his ass if present Tucker tried to steal his fathering thunder). Here is the only place for him right now.

Tucker is tired. They’ve got him on pain meds but his side throbs anyway. His head is pounding, it’s hurting thinking hard enough to make up believable lies, and now he’s remembered the future fate of Agent David Washington it’s really hard to look at the younger guy standing in front of him. Even if he is in love with the fucker.  


Tucker, with drooping and teary eyes that aren’t as much to do with being tired as he’d like his guests to believe, asks if he can be allowed to sleep. The Director agrees, but he has one more question for Captain Tucker before he leaves.

‘How do you know Agent Washington?’

****

They let him out of the sick bay the next day at breakfast. His wound wasn’t deep and aside from giving him a weeks worth of pain meds and promising not to train for a few days, there’s not much more anyone can do. On his departure they also give him a temporary ID card that reads ‘Guest’ until he proves himself otherwise. He’s told it’ll provide access to the cafeteria, training rooms, recreational facilities and his very own dorm (apparently Tucker’s ‘lucky’ they recently lost a few crew members). Trying to go somewhere he shouldn’t will get him kicked out into the void of space.

Tucker did consider trying to find the controls next time the agents went off ship on a mission, and crashing the space craft to take the entire Project down in one fell swoop. But even with all his talk of being a badass, Tucker knows he’s no where near stealthy enough to become an inside man and destroy the Project from inside out. Winging it probably wouldn’t work this time either, and as it turns out he doesn’t really want to die.

Not that he actually knows what he wants. 

A sign points him towards the cafeteria. It looks like one of the street signs on every corner of the town he grew up in. Weirdly enough, it’s the most earth like thing he’s seen since he left the planet. The signs gives him an unpleasant tug at the pit of his stomach, and Tucker realises with alarm he’s feeling homesickness for the first time in years.

Homesickness doesn’t feel like quite the right word though. Maybe it’s more of a longing for the future he imagined and lost with his boyfriend.

Tucker spent the time he was awake yesterday feeling sorta numb, poking at his stitches to make sure he was alive, but by the time night rolled around he was clutching his stomach and crying out for someone who is both dead and barely aware of his existence. Now he has a better hold on himself, Tucker just feels unsteady. There’s a sort of disbelief that surrounds every step on this mythical ship and every thought, especially when it concerns Wash. His head doesn’t seem to understand that Wash is dead, your boyfriend was shot in the head right in front of you by a man you let walk away not sixth months ago! Get _angry_ Tucker, get _loud,_ get _vengeful_ or _tearful_ or _anything other than this suspended state of apathy because Agent Washington was the best fucking man you ever knew and he deserves so much more than that._

His head is still stuck on new Agent Washington he has to deal with now.

The doors slide aside to let Tucker into the cafeteria. There are five people in the room: Carolina, and four he doesn’t recognise. When he walks in, a blonde guy looks up and spots him, nudges Carolina in the side. By the time Tucker’s plate is laden with toast and jam he’s not really in the mood to eat, he can feel all eyes on him. When he finds a seat a table away from Carolina’s, it’s impossible not to spot the stares pointedly in his direction; though, Tucker guesses that is perhaps on purpose. These are the kind of people who could likely conceal a stare if they wanted to.  
He doesn’t even get halfway through pretending to eat his toast before he’s joined by Carolina, Blondie and the other starers.

‘Are you actually going to eat that?’ Carolina says, pointing down at the crumby mess on his plate. ‘You’ll be no good training on an empty stomach.’

‘I am eating it.’ Tucker says defensively and takes his first bite just to prove a point. The jam slides down Tuckers throat like mucus and sticks at the top of his gullet.

‘No you’re not. I know pretending to eat when I see it. I bet his fingers are really sticky from playing with his food.’ An uncomfortably young looking brunette girl leans over the table to examine Tucker’s hands, so he frowns and leans accusingly away. The way everyone sits right now is way too friendly; leaning towards each other, all smiles and winks and sarcasm, with a certain confident swagger that suggests a group of pack animals in their own territory. They’re all too much like high school - like this is some kind of clique and he’s the new meat they’re examining - for an organisation he knows only ends in death and regret.

Wash never made it sound like this. The way he described it, every day was just another to fight for a cause he didn’t really understand, under some obsessive dictator bent on them all destroying each other. It’s so hard to see all the monsters he painted as humans.

They introduce themselves. Out of armour Tucker was clueless, but he feels dumb now he knows their names; Blondie is obviously York, Uncomfortably Young Chick is Connecticut, and it was just plain stupid he didn’t recognise the Dakota Twins when he first walked in.

They had a briefing that morning. They know he’s from the future, and he’s met future Washington. They want to know more.

‘They said you helped him on a mission or something?’ York probes.

Tucker nods. ‘He needed men and a vehicle. I provided him with both.’ It’s scary how he’s beginning to sound like Sarge.

‘So what’s future Washington like? I can’t imagine him growing up that much.’ Tucker gets team mom vibes from North, and he can’t decide if this makes him angry or sad. It’s not North’s fault that everything goes to shit, but moms shouldn’t just abandon their kids. They don’t get to choose when to care, or only stick around when it’s fun. He’s never going to feel sorry for these people. They left Wash all alone, and nothing will ever repair that damage done.

He’s doesn’t want to make up a Wash that doesn’t exist, but he can’t talk about the Wash he knows. Tucker tells them he and Wash didn’t really talk for long, only long enough to know that the Agent would keep his guys safe.

‘But only his friends call him Wash. Does he go by a nickname now?’ C.T. asks.

‘I really wouldn’t know.’ Tucker answers, exhausted. He catches Carolina’s eye. She’s being too quiet, and it freaks him out. Pretending to eat his toast becomes interesting again.

‘I bet he’s looking old. I can’t wait to see the baby get old. Does he have greys? Oh my god, I’m going to rip him apart if he gets greys in the next ten years.’South draws the attention to her. In different circumstances, she’d probably be the type Tucker’d hit on, but you know. Wrong place. Wrong time. Dead boyfriend.

‘He didn’t really take his helmet off, I don’t remember, can we talk about something else?’ The toast on Tucker’s plate is beyond salvageable. The jam on his fingers is bright, blistering red.

‘I need to know though, do you think he’d grow a beard or anything?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Washington, with a beard? South nah, he’s probably going to end up copying Wyoming’s ‘stach, right Captain Tucker?’

‘Really, I don’t know.’

‘Oh my God, does he still show everyone those fucking pictures of his cats?’

‘Please, stop. I really can’t-‘

‘What were their names? Annie or something? Honestly, I’ve never met a guy with a bigger boner for cats-‘

‘For fuck’s sake ‘Lina, will you make these guys cut it out?’ Tucker snaps. He doesn’t know what he’s done until he looks up from his toast and catches York raising his eyebrows, and Carolina’s glare.

‘What did you just call me?’

‘Look, I - you were with him. You were both on a mission, and you wanted cars. You got them. I don’t know who you were with, where you were going, why, what, when, I can’t tell you anything more. I’m sorry. Goodbye.’ Tucker swings off stool to dump his plate in the bin. He’s all set to storm out and sulk in his assigned dorm for a while, until the doors open with a soft hiss and once again, he finds himself face to face with the Director and Washington.

It’s not another interrogation, thank god, though Wash still looks nervous. He instead shoots a sort of smile at his freelancer buddies and goes for the food set out behind Tucker. 

Unfortunately, Tucker is still stuck in the Director’s line of sight. The agents have ignored Wash’s small hello - instead, they look between their boss and the newcomer. The Director is a very unpredictable and volatile bomb, and already Tucker has proved himself as damn good at getting hot under pressure, bow chicka…

‘How are you, Captain Tucker?’

‘Okay, thank you.’

‘You slept well?’

‘As well as was possible, sir.’

‘Good. Dr Cole tells me you plan to resume training on Thursday?’

‘Yeah, I…’ Tucker is incredibly uncomfortable being polite to this jerk. He reaches down to fumble with the hilt of his sword pressed to his leg as a sort of safety blanket, but instead his fingers brush the soft material of the civvies they gave him. Retrieving said weapon jumps to number one on his list of priorities.‘I was meaning to ask, could I get my sword back?’

‘I do not think that will be necessary.’

Shit.

‘Oh, no, I won’t carry it round with me, but for like, training and stuff… It’s my primary weapon, I don’t really do much more than swish swish stab. I’m pretty good at it though.’

‘You are only trained in melee combat?’

‘No! No, I can use a sniper better than any of my team mates can, but it’s just what I’m best at. I feel like it’s always been there, and it’s what I’ve done the most training in, so it makes sense to continue to hone my skills, right?’

‘You are skilled with a sniper rifle?’

‘I mean, I can hit a target, that’s more than Ch- Charlie could ever do.’ 

‘That is good to know. Agents, I did not mean to interrupt your breakfast. I will see you all at training, with the exception of Captain Tucker.’ Fuck, this guy just changed the subject completely!

‘Wait so - no sword?’

‘You will not need a sword. You are in no danger so long as you follows the rules of this ship and do not leave without permission.’ The Director is trying to act like the calm, bigger man on the high road, but Tucker won’t stand for it. He can’t do much, but he can resist getting pulled into the centre of bullshit gravity this guy has circling around him.

‘No, but you said I could train. I can train, right? I really, really would like my sword back. I’ll only use it in the training rooms, you can keep it in a locker or something, but please. I need it.’ He doesn’t mention how the shiny glowing death stick reminds him sort of his alien hybrid child (but he’s only known most of these people a day).

‘It is alien technology. You likely have no idea the worth of the thing, or even more so, the danger you put yourself in by using it. It would be in much better hands of a soldier trained for its specific combat style.’ He’s so patronising. He’s so damn patronising, and Tucker wants to scream because he knows, asshole, he knows your end game, and not only does he know that but he knows what he’s doing to the ghost of himself who still has more of a soul than the Director ever could. He’s not scared of you. You created the thing that left you belly up. One day, asshole, you’re gonna regret the day you let Lavernius Tucker on this ship.

Today isn’t that day.

‘Look I just - I really want it back, okay? You pulled me ten years and a couple galaxies away from home, now you’re annoyed when I want my stuff back?’

‘There’s no need, it would only pose a danger to yourself and others - I doubt you’ve ever had official training-‘

‘I know how to use the damn sword, okay! It’s mine! It won’t work for anyone but me! My sword and my armour are the only things I have to remind me of home. You can’t take them away from me.’

Silence. The Director stares him down, and Tucker stares right back.

‘Captain. Might I remind you this is my ship. While I admire your perseverance, I would suggest you find another method to channel your frustrations.’

For some idiot reason Tucker looks to the Agents at the table. Wash has joined them, and they look at him as if to say, ‘What?’, but when Tucker doesn’t look away - too late now, hey - Carolina says,

‘There’s good reason for it, Captain Tucker.’

Tucker has to leave before he vomits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, ok, I did the dream cliche. Sue me! I like it.

Tucker dreams.

Young Agent Washington shows him a room, a showroom. Displayed are the very same artefacts that Hargrove had on display in his ship, but in the centre of the room is a tall pedestal. Sat with his knees at his chest in a cage is Epsilon-Church, holographic blue flickering delicately as he struggles to function. Around the pedestal is a lower display table, where other weapons and artefacts from Tucker’s time in the UNSC sit scattered and broken. Useless.

Washington rests his hands on the table and playfully leans towards Epsilon Church in the cage. He smiles, but it's forced, broken, like something from a horror movie. Washington flicks the bars of the cage, Epsilon flinches, and suddenly Washington begins to sob. He’s still smiling.

Tucker notices the teleportation grenades on the table. He doesn’t want to touch them. Tucker looks into the gaps between metal, and the grenade seems to recognise him. It flickers and begins to glow Epsilon blue.

Tucker reaches out, and the second his fingers brush the cool metal, the air becomes humid and dusty. He looks up, and he’s not on the MOI anymore.

Wash is facing the wrong way.

Locus takes his aim.

Tucker isn’t wearing any armour, but he runs anyway, and he wakes up just before the bullet that killed Wash pierces Tucker's own forehead.

***

Young Washington is curious.

After the incident the first day at breakfast, Wash stays away. But Tucker catches the sidelong glances cast in his direction when he eventually plucks up the courage to enter the cafeteria again, even if no one will speak to him.

After three days, it appears the temptation becomes too much for Washington.

It’s been the longest three days of Tucker’s life. He can’t train, the rec room only has training videos, and the Director’s sole instruction has been to bring him coffee (which Tucker made thick as tar, only for the Director to love it. Great).

Tucker has much too much time on his hands.

There’s nothing to distract himself. He found the observation deck his first day, a stunning array of stars and planets, possibilities, people, and so many futures to come. Not for the first time, Tucker felt his breath taken away - and yet, it was too easy to remember he wasn’t sat with Wash on the corrugated roof of his Chorus bunk, and was, in fact, living his worst nightmare. He cried so hard the world began to spin and sat, numb, musing on the point of it all. And then the thought came of how Wash would scold him if he heard those thoughts, and he dried his eyes with a strong drive to do... something! Anything! Until he heard someone opening the other door, and Tucker rushed to pull himself up from the floor and run away before they could see his bloodshot eyes and wet t-shirt.

At least he found a bathroom to hide until he looked somewhat normal again. He hadn’t lost that many fluids since his last encounter with Sister.

On day two, Tucker hears Wyoming (and manages not to scream, run away, or explode him again) talking about a meeting the Director is holding. The agents have another mission, and they’ll be stopping on the next planet. Instantly the training rooms spots fill up.

Day three, Tucker goes to watch.

He’s the only one watching from the spectator’s room. Everyone else is too busy training. On the floor, Wyoming and Florida spar so fast Tucker can barely keep up. He’s seen freelancers fight before, but it’s incredible to see his old Captain and Wyoming tearing each other apart. Tucker wonders what it would have been like if Flowers had been with them when they were actually fighting Wyoming, but that would have meant no Caboose, so it’s kind of moot.

Tucker rests his hands on the control board, spreading his fingers out as not to press any buttons, and leans closer to the glass to get a look. His breath fogs up the glass as he stares down in awe. It’s so cool to watch two soldiers fight, like a violent dance, and Tucker becomes lost in the motions.

The door behind him opens, and just like in the observatory, he jumps and scrambles for a more inconspicuous position. He’s so spooked he just ends up bumping his nose on the glass and trying to stop himself falling with a moving chair. So all in all, looking like a bit of an idiot.

Washington gives him an awkward half-smile and walks into the room to sit down on the offending chair.

Tucker's not in the mood to deal with Washington, but young Wash must have the discretion of a wide open window because he tells Tucker ‘Don’t leave on my behalf' and well, Tucker can't just leave now, can he?

So Tucker sits down.. and it becomes impossible to concentrate.

Washington isn’t even trying to watch the spar. He never quite mastered the art of subtlety but Christ, Wash, Tucker’ll be surprised if Wyoming and Florida don’t notice him staring.

Tucker's eyes struggle to find a resting point. He can’t concentrate hard enough to watch the spar and pretending to watch when he feels a set of very obvious eyes on his face leaves him with a very obvious burning blush.

Fuck it. Tucker’ll just stare Washington down. He’s done it enough times in training to almost be good at it. Wash even let him win a few times.

He forces his best bitchface to the surface and faces Wash.

Oh, fuck.

Big mistake.

Wash isn’t wearing his helmet. And instead of returning Tucker’s glare, he just looks affronted. Offended. Way too fucking young. And there it is again, not nervous this time but still, like he can’t possibly understand why there’d be a single reason in the word for this stranger (because that’s what Tucker is now, a stranger) to give him such a nasty look.

Tucker wants to craw up into a ball and shoot himself out the side of MOI to float in the void of space, forever. With that image of Washington branded into his eyelids.

‘What?’ Wash’s voice breaks, and the word has no vigour behind it. Evidently, someone isn’t good at confrontation yet. Washington frowns, but his cheeks have gone a little pink, and all Tucker can think is _‘Fuck, look how nervous the guy is. He’s like a kid finally standing up to his annoying big brother’._

Tucker lets his face soften. Curious, he asks ‘Why aren’t you joining in?’, gesturing to the fight below as Phyllis announces another point to Wyoming.

Washington pushes on his toes to spin the chair around and holds out his right wrist to Tucker. The outer armour has been stripped and the kevlar suit is rolled up to his elbow. Beneath the glowing ice pack strapped to it, Washington’s wrist looks a shade of red so angry it should be screaming, _‘you dirty Blues!’_ , and swollen enough it’s as wide as his forearm.

‘Dude, what happened?’ Tucker reaches out, takes Wash’s palm in one hand and holds just above the ice pack with the other to turn his wrist gently from side to side, examining the damage.

‘Uh, Carolina likes to push me. I’m fine, but I’ve got to give it a rest for today. If I push myself I could hurt it permanently.’

Wash starts to pull his hand away from Tucker’s hold. Tucker thinks, _‘Dude, what gives? You say it’s not broken but I wish Doc was around, and besides, you’re always nagging me to hold your hand and not your ass_ ‘ - but it’s lucky he doesn’t say any of this, because Doc _isn’t_ around, and this Wash has never asked Tucker to hold his hand, and he basically just held a strangers hand for half a minute or so. So he lets the hand go and avoids the owner’s face.

Tucker can’t be here any longer. This isn’t Wash, or even Agent Washington. It’s a stupid kid who would probably be more comfortable with the name David. David doesn’t need Tucker, and frankly, Tucker can’t handle what David means.

He pushes back on his stupid spinny chair to leave. Maybe tomorrow he can watch in peace.

‘You can train again soon, right?’

Tucker stops.

‘Not tomorrow but yeah, the day after.’

‘Ah, right. I think the Director is interesting in seeing you train. That’s pretty cool!’

No, David, it’s not.

‘Look, unlike you, I’m not desperate to suck the Director’s dick for every last drop of approval.’

There’s a pause. Tucker betrays himself to look away from the door, back at Wash, who stares at him with dark eyes.

‘I didn’t take you for the homophobic type.’

And Tucker - Tucker is so taken aback that _homophobic_ is what was picked up from that conversation, he can’t even begin to explain all the reasons Washington is wrong.

‘You didn’t take me for any type. You don’t know me. And I’m not, anyway, for the record.’

‘Gay?’

‘Homophobic!’

‘So you are gay?’

‘God, what is it to you?!’

A hand touches itself to Tucker's shoulder. He jumps, relaxes when he sees Carolina, and tenses immediately when he sees Connecticut and Maine behind her.

‘Relax, Private, he does this all the time. I think the only reason he stopped doing it to Maine was the threat of castration.’

Tucker looks at Maine, the helmet of a guy he knows will die at his own and his teammate's hands. He feels incredibly guilty when the helmet nods and makes a small sound that is probably a chuckle (except it’s too early in the timeline for Maine to have lost his voice, so he’s probably just shy. God, Maine is shy. The Meta is a human, one that Tucker will kill).

‘It will be interesting to see you train though, Captain. It’s impressive the Director is already interested in you.’ Everyone but CT nods along with Carolina, and Tucker is reminded of her deflection to the insurrectionists. Of everything, _that’s_ what makes him feel slightly less alone.

Still, the ensuing conversation on how the upcoming mission will affect the leaderboard still makes Tucker rush back to his bunk before he starts spilling secrets.

For the first time, a small burst of resolve flits through his head when he lays in the grey sheets -

_maybe it doesn’t have to end that way, this time._

_*****_

Young Wash is also decidedly lazier.

At the end of week one, Tucker wakes with a start and the thought of leg day. He can feel in his bones that he’s overslept, and the blinking red 09:53 on the alarm clock next to him agrees. He flings himself up into a sitting position, looks desperately around the room for any tracksuit bottoms that could be disguised as a bundle of old clothes, begins to form excuses in his head for Wash -

and then realises he doesn’t have to anymore.

If this is what relief feels like, it’s certainly not the bliss he expected. Instead, the realisation there’s no one to force him up and at ‘em lies heavy on his chest.

Tucker lies back down feeling oddly defeated, and manages about ten minutes of tossing and turning before the thin sheets are angrily thrown off the bed and he’s pulling on the neatly folded work out clothes that were left on his standard issue chest of drawers. There’s too much on his mind to fall back asleep, the bed’s not really comfortable enough to justify a lay in and besides, somewhere along the line leg day almost became.. well, fun is a strong word, but it’s better than lying on a cardboard mattress stewing in his own pity-party of thoughts.

He’s so glad to finally have something to occupy his time.

When he eventually makes it down to the track (a wide, empty room with synthetic grass and a crystal blue, pixel sky) it’s late enough that everyone has moved past the warm-up phase, and Tucker has the room to himself. Even the observation booth for the room is empty, so those rumours about the Director giving him special interest must have been just that.

Tucker performs the few stretches he can remember Wash teaching him - pulling his leg up to his ass, pushing his elbow and arm down his back, bending to touch his toes - and feels his muscles awake from hibernation.

He begins to run and becomes lost in the solid, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of his feet on the ground. He only briefly notices when his calves begin to complain. Even though it’s synthetic, it almost smells like a real field in here. His mind wanders, it’s easy to do that in this serene place; there was an old movie he watched, where the main character was stuck in a fake world his whole life - could do that here? Back on Earth people were still loosing their minds over a game show based on a book that predicted the future, way back in the 20th century - Big Brother? Could he do that here? Make an intergalactic version of Big Brother and like, get Caboose’s siblings from the moon or something to help, that’d be interesting, they banned aliens on Big Brother after that incident where that girl was eaten, bow chicka….

Tucker is rudely awakened from his daydreaming when another runner’s thudding joins his own.

It’s fucking _Washington._

There’s a 99% chance he’s following Tucker around on purpose.

He doesn’t stop running. Ignoring Wash has never worked in the past, but talking has only exacerbated things, and with the well-awaited thrill of exercise finally in his veins again Tucker decides he’s not in the mood to stop anytime soon.

Tucker keeps a steady pace. At first, Washington passes him easily, and gains laps on Tucker; then his initial burst of speed runs out, and they stand about equal, running parallel to each other the track. After another 15 or so rounds of the track, Tucker begins to lap Washington.

Back in his own time, Tucker had just, _just_ begun to keep up with his Wash, so it’s no surprise he can overtake the younger one. Still, it’s surprising how quickly young Washington seems to have tired out.

Washington’s presence once again serves as a distraction from Tucker's innermost thoughts, rendering his run now entirely boring. So, when after passing Wash yet again the kid calls out ‘Hey!’, Tucker doesn’t mind slowing to keep pace with him.

‘How can you work so hard?’ Wash asks him, panting. ‘I don’t mind training, but I’m, uh, already kinda bored, and you’ve been going twice as long as me. What’s up with that?’

‘Don’t you wanna improve?’ Tucker asks in surprise, trying to cover up the exhaustion in his voice. He frightens himself when young Wash looks hopeful and Tucker realises this is probably the friendliest he's been to him.

He’s getting too used to this new Wash.

‘Of course I do, but even Maine doesn’t have stamina like me. How come you’re not tired yet?’

Tucker slows down to a jog, then a stop, and rest his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Wash pauses his jog too.

‘Well… I always feel like I’m competing against myself. Today I can always do better than I did yesterday, ‘cause I already achieved the stuff I did yesterday, which means I’m already that good. If I persist, I can only get better.’ It’s painful seeing the sudden understanding on the younger soldier’s face, knowing that in fifteen years time he’s to teach the same idea to a frustrated, pissed off, ship wrecked Private Tucker (in the very same canyon that holds home to their first kiss).

 They run again, keeping better pace with each other, even if they can both hear the laboured breathing, see the beads of sweat, feel the struggle it takes to continuously put one leg in front of the other. When Maine and York appear at the door five minutes later to tell Wash his combat scenario session is up, Washington leaves with a little wave to Tucker, just finishing his last cool down lap. Tucker doesn’t wave back, but the gesture does sate the turmoil still rolling in Tucker's stomach a little.

It’s been a week, but when he’s not dreaming he still can’t grasp a solid hold on any sort of belief his boyfriend is dead. Not when he’s right in front of him.

Tucker spends the rest of the day in the gym, still searching for a way to mourn (and trying not question whether he even should be in the first place).

 

***

Washington comes back from the mission with a new scar on the same wrist that was wrapped in an ice pack a few days ago. He fumbled a knife mid-throw, and Carolina apologises, since her pushing him probably cause him to hurt it.

Wash tells her not to sweat it; he’s already forgotten.

Tucker knows that much is true, as well as he knows the scar. It extends from the bony lump on his wrist, all the way across the back of his hand and ends between his thumb and index finger. Tucker’s thumb used to catch the ridges on his Wash’s skin every time they held hands. Wash thought it was from a skateboarding incident when he was a kid.

Later that evening, in bed, Tucker twirls a pen between his own thumb and forefinger. He ponders over the physical journal he’s been asked to keep while the removal of his helmet prevents him from making video ones, and notices a black streak of pen over his own dark skin.

He flicks the cap off the biro and draws Wash’s new scar on his own hand.

There used to be another, that crossed the center of the first scar and trailed further up his arm. Tucker puts pen to skin, but suddenly questions himself - was the longer scar not on Wash’s left arm?

He panics. It’s been a week. He can’t have already forgotten the intricacies of his boyfriend's skin. What a luxury, when he could peruse them at his own delight - which Tucker often did, lazily running his finger tip over the old lines of war, the new lines of love he himself was responsible for, feeling Wash shudder under his boyfriend’s hand.

Tucker never stopped to try and remember each mark on his boyfriend. But that couldn’t help the inevitable - when Tucker’s mind became so firmly set on Wash’s body, he would remember the details without a choice (if only high school had been so easy).

Still, with a reassurance in his mind that the long scar was most definitely on the right (because Tucker’s tattoos are on the left), and knowing he can look at all the pictures he wants when he receives his helmet back, Tucker continues drawing.

When he finishes, Tucker’s skin is more ink than anything else. But once he started, the pen and the memories took over. Not a single mark is missed, not from the v on his right bicep to the taught, uneven skin on his left shoulder. If Tucker had a razor he would shave through his eyebrow to properly draw the lighting bolt cutting through the hair and curling around his eye.

Tucker looks in the mirror. He doesn’t know what he expected; the marks are accurate but there’s still something missing.

He dots the pen onto his nose and cheeks, again and again until his nose becomes sorta numb to the sensation, and then down his neck.

The freckles look even dumber than the lines he’d drawn. Maybe it doesn’t work because Tucker’s still not used to the scars on his own skin yet.

Either way, when he wakes up the next morning with a black pillow and the realisation that _fuck, he’s probably going to see Wash today and I’m pretty sure he’s going to recognise his own skin, and even if he doesn’t what grown man draws all over himself in biro -_

Tucker’s really glad he’s late enough to the showers everyone’s already at breakfast.


End file.
